


Sex and Candy

by le_chat_vilain



Series: The Joker and the Thief [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Fluff, NSFW, Sick Fic, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:17:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5221130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_chat_vilain/pseuds/le_chat_vilain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thief doesn't quite know what to make of what just happened, but can't help feeling as though she's met her match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex and Candy

**Author's Note:**

> Apart from a NSFWish warning, I don’t think there are actually any other warnings for this weirdly enough, though I think I ended up in sick fic territory a little bit somehow. Smut isn’t as detailed in this, and it’s certainly not as graphic or violent as in chapter one. That will happen from time to time with this story overall, a quick wham bam thank you ma’am instead of a full blown scene. This is almost an aftercare story of sorts in a weird way.  
> There’s a little Alice in Wonderland reference in there too.
> 
> Soundtrack: Sex and Candy by Marcy Playground

Am I just like him? Maybe. In a way I suppose I am. I’m disturbingly at ease with him, the way only two people cut from the same cloth can be, and while I might not be quite on his level of crazy, I know the potential is there: why else would my parents have spent the annual budget of a small European nation and the entirety of my teenage years trying to “fix” me?

The adrenalin is starting to wear off and the dull and persistent aches are creeping in. I sit up wearily, undoing the remaining few buttons on his shirt and pushing it off my shoulders to examine the spot where he decided to get his Dracula on. The blood is beginning to congeal, and it looks like I might be able to get away with patching it up myself, but I can’t do anything until I get a shower.

With a wince, a groan, and probably the grace of a newborn giraffe, I manage to get to my feet, passing through a few yoga positions on my way for good measure. I stretch my arms over my head and turn to look at him, lying there on his back on the floor, covered in blood with his pants around his knees. His eyes are closed and his head is resting on his hands, a smug and content grin on his lips. He looks ridiculous and I let out a snort of laughter at the sight.

“What?” he asks, opening one eye and fixing it on me.

“Nothing. You look-”

“Devilishly handsome? Sexy as hell?”

“Well I was gonna say like shit, but whatever you need to tell yourself to get through the day,” I reply. I’m not kidding either; he really does look like he’s been hit by a freight train. He goes back to his absurd looking meditation, and I quickly scan the joint for signs of a bathroom. It’s not as dingy as I initially thought, more decorated in that shabby kind of industrial style that’s all the rage these days. He’s even got a kitchen - then again so did Hannibal Lecter. When I spot the bathroom to the left of it, I shuck his shirt and throw it over my shoulder, hearing a muffled exclamation when it apparently lands on his face.

I pull back the shower curtain and I’m almost shocked not to find a strung up corpse, but I am definitely not complaining. I turn on the water and let it wash over me, stinging and soothing my various wounds.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” he remarks from behind me and I startle. “Hey look at that, she is scareable after all.”

“Yeah, well, I dunno if you ever saw that movie about the psycho that sneaks up behind the girl in the shower? Well, it doesn’t end so good for her, so I try to avoid ending up in a similar predicament if I can,” I say, turning to face him. I expect him to be smiling but he’s not, not quite. He’s just standing there, looking me up and down with a slight curl in his lips and glint in his eye, just drinking me in; an appreciator of Renaissance art standing before the Mona Lisa.

“I think it’s safe to say you failed, sweetheart,” he observes, stepping forward to join me under the water. We’re both caught in a trance watching the blood circle the drain.

“That one might need a hospital,” I point out, nodding at a gash on his cheek where the pistol made contact. I didn’t think the words through before I said them, and he looks at me like I’m the world’s biggest dipshit.

“Oh yeah, fronting up to a hospital, that’ll work out so well for me,” he sasses. I can’t help at laugh at my own stupidity; of course he can’t go to the fucking hospital. “It’s nothing I can’t take care of.”

I absentmindedly run my hand over the cut in my forearm and hiss at the sting. He takes my wrist and inspects it for himself.

“Yep. That’ll need stitches,” he concludes. “My bad. Sorry.”

His eyes lock onto mine as he says it with a smile. He’s ripe with insincerity and he knows that I know it. A chuckle passes my lips and I shake my head at him. He moves closer again, backing me up against the wall with my arm out to the side. Cocking his head, he studies the bite mark next.

“This one you got lucky with,” he whispers in my ear, before planting a soft kiss on the spot where his teeth had broken my skin. “But don’t worry, I’ll take care of ya.”

“Like you took such good care of Harley?” He jerks back and if looks could kill I’d be dust. “Oh yeah, I know all about that. You did a real number on her now, didn’t you?”

I feel him press hard against my wrist and his jaw tenses as the words clearly strike a chord. I stay silent for a moment, and judging by the look in his eyes it’s been a long time since he’s been caught off guard like that. As fun as it is to watch him squirm, I decide to let him off the hook and my lips twist into a smirk.

“Aww, don’t worry, mate, I was broken long before you got to me.”

We stare at each other for a beat before the corners of his mouth begin to turn up again.

“Oh, I know,” he purrs, leaning in to let his lips brush mine as he says it. “I had to make Harley. But you? I can just wind you up and watch you go.”

With that he grabs my other wrist and pins it to the wall, and gingerly bites my bottom lip, tugging on it as he pulls away.

“All. Day. Long.”

“What are you waiting for then?” I ask and he grins at me while he shakes his head. He squeezes my arms, and kisses me like he wants to consume me.

“Where have you been all my life?” he chuckles.

“Hey, don’t go falling in love with me now,” I warn, and although I say it with a smirk on my face, I mean it. He lets go of one of my wrists and runs a hand down my body, over my ass and down my thigh before lifting my knee to rest it in the crook of his arm.

“Too late,” he confesses with a lick of sarcasm, and lifts me up before lowering me onto his cock.

This time it’s not the brutal, savage struggle for power it was before. This is slow, foreheads touching, fingers laced, too overwhelmed by the connection to even kiss, sex. It’s electric, and intimate, and completely foreign to me. My free arm snakes around his neck and I dig my fingers into his shoulder, and by the time we cum the water’s run cold and I swear the shivering only adds to the sensation. It’s like a shot of morphine coursing through my veins, flooding my system and scrambling my thoughts until I can’t even remember my own name.

The euphoria is terrifying. It’s heaven and hell in a high, and before I even come down from my first hit I know I’m addicted.

We slide down the wall and I end up sitting in his lap, straddling him with my palms on his chest. When his eyes meet mine I see something unexpected in them: vulnerability. I thought it was there when I brought up Harley, but now I’m sure of it.

“Whoa…” he pants.

“Yeah…”

“I am so sorry that has never happened to me before,” he explains making light of the situation.

“Yeah, well…don’t let it happen again,” I tell him with a grin, and just like that we make a silent agreement that we won’t speak of it further. I summon the strength to stand and deliver a swift slap to his cheek before stepping out and grabbing a towel from an oddly neat stack under the sink. The whole place is oddly neat come to think of it. I guess we all have our quirks, even those of us who are bat shit insane.

I glance at him before heading back out into the kitchen, and he’s still sitting there, staring at the ground and rubbing the spot where my hand made contact with his face. My arm is throbbing again and it spurs me to start rummaging through the cabinets for a first aid kit. My disbelief at the normalcy of this place continues; cups, plates, pots, pans, and even that one cupboard full of Tupperware that you just can’t ever seem to keep organised, it’s all here.

“Curiouser and curiouser…” I mumble to myself, and spring up onto the bench to get a look in the cupboard over the fridge, almost losing my towel in the process.

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

He’s standing there with a towel around his hips, arms folded, just watching me. He couldn’t hide the amusement on his face even if he tried.

“Well infection’s gonna kill this cat first if she doesn’t get herself stitched up.”

“Well if that’s what you’re after…” he unfolds his arms and waves a small metal tin with a green cross on the lid at me. “…then you better come here.”

I roll my eyes at him and sit on the edge of the counter.

“Right. America. Medicine cabinets…” I remind myself out loud, tilting my head back to stare at the ceiling. He saunters over to stand in front of me, snickering quietly and shaking his head.

“Where do you suggest I keep it then?” he asks, popping the tin open and setting it on the bench beside me.

“Well shit, I dunno, maybe near the knives? Or the gas stove with the open flames? I mean what the fuck are you doing in the bathroom that you need a first aid kit in there more than in the kitchen?” I suggest with that trademark Aussie blend of exasperation, shade, and sass. He flashes me an ominous grin and takes my wrist, wiping it with an alcohol swab before procuring a suture kit and tearing open the plastic.

“What do _I_  do in there?” he asks me, looking me in the eye briefly before turning his attention to his task. I watch his face as he works, so mesmerized that I barely register the pain. In his concentration, he bites his lip and I realize I’m seeing the blank canvas; the clown prince without his costume. I’m staring, fascinated by how innocent he looks without all the theatrics. Even then, there’s still something sinister about him; he’s like a Tassie devil, adorable but unsettling in a way you can’t quite put your finger on. He finishes my stitches and puts a patch over them. “You know, I’m a little shocked you gotta ask.”

His gaze catches mine and he places his hands on my knees, parting my them slowly. A knot of apprehension tightens in my stomach, because as much as I want to, I’m in no way up to a round three; frankly I have no idea how he possibly could be either. I feel his fingers tracing their way up the inside of my thigh, and just when I’ve resigned myself to the fact I already can’t say no to him, the cool tingling of another swab on one of the abrasions on my leg saves me. I’m so exhausted that I’ve clearly given up on my poker face, because he’s giving me that knowing smirk again.

“Oh, believe me, sweetheart,” he begins, leaning closer and stepping forward to let his hips keep my legs apart, “It’s not for lack of enthusiasm.”

I follow his eyes as they look me up and down, and watch him lick his lips in approval. The urge to grab him by the throat and pull him in for a kiss is indescribably hard to resist. Too hard.

_Just a kiss, just one…_  I tell myself, and like the impulsive junkie I am I give in to the temptation. It takes all my will to pull away, but I do so with a groan and heavy sigh; just a kiss, that’s all.

“I know, baby,” I reassure him, and lightly run my thumb over the split the grip of the heavy old revolver left in his cheek. On closer inspection, it looks like he could probably get away with glue, and I take a tube, a swab, and some steri-strips from the tin. “Your turn.”

I close the wound just like my father taught me and like I’ve done on myself countless times before. He’ll probably have a slight scar, something to remember me by. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of a clock on the wall, and remember that I actually had shit to do today.

“Fuck. I’ve gotta go,” I tell him, and feebly attempt to push him away.

“No you don’t.” he dismisses, and runs his hands along my thighs, pushing my towel up to expose them. He thinks I’m making an excuse.

“I hate it, but I really do. I was supposed to meet my fence an hour ago.” I really do hate it. I don’t want to go and meet Digger and deal with his misogynistic bullshit, but he leaves for Central City tomorrow and if I don’t go now it’ll be another month before he’s back.

“You’re already late, just stay…come on, you know you want to…I want you to…” he implores, the words sweet like honey and his inflection disarmingly honest. I want nothing more that to give him what he wants - especially when he runs his lips up my neck and nibbles on my ear lobe.

“I really can’t,” I pull away to look at him and this time he backs off with a defeated sigh, giving me some very convincing puppy dog eyes in the process. I wish I could stay, stay here, stay with him, stay my purest self with my walls down and free of the chains that hold me back, but I can’t afford to lose a fence. Not in this economy. I might be a thief, but for the most part I’m also a professional. “Believe me, it’s not for lack of enthusiasm.”

He laughs at the way I throw his own words back at him, and I slide down from the counter top. Spying his trench on a hook by the door, I throw my towel over my shoulder at him as a distraction while I quickly slip into it. It’s a little long, and a little tight over my tits and loose everywhere else, but it’ll do; I have no idea where my own clothes got to. More importantly, the flash drive I stole from Cobblepot is still in the pocket.

“So that’s it then?” he calls out as I reach for the door handle. I peer over my shoulder and he’s grinning at me like the Cheshire cat. “First my heart, now my coat? You are cold, sweetheart.”

“Thief, remember?” I quip, and with a wink and a smile, I open the door and step out into the dark stairwell.

He needn’t worry, I’ll be back - he still has my lucky Chucks.

***

_God, I wanna hurt her, I wanna hurt her so bad._

_But I wanna…take care of her after…protect her…that doesn’t seem like me…_

_Did I just…beg her? Since when do I beg…_

_And that…in the shower…that was…what was that? Who was that? That wasn’t me…was it?_

_What the fuck is happening to me?_


End file.
